


The Last of Something Bright Burning, Still Burning

by jeremystollemyheart



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Trans Character, Trans Raoul de Chagny, canon minor character death, more pre-ship than ship but I'm R/C trash so, transphantomweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26225194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeremystollemyheart/pseuds/jeremystollemyheart
Summary: "She just wants to make sure you’re okay. Relatively speaking.”Christine laughs, as breakable and half-wild as the laughter of fairies that her father used to insist he could hear on summer evenings. Raoul can’t remember when they stopped sounding like fairies to him, when he started explaining the noises away as crickets chirping and tree leaves rustling.“Sit with me?” She begs, and of course he does.--Raoul finds Christine alone at her father's funeral visitation. They begin to heal together.Written for Trans Phantom of the Opera Appreciation Week.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Last of Something Bright Burning, Still Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Trans Phantom of the Opera Appreciation Week Day One!
> 
> Raoul playing the violin is important to me, and to me alone, but I will always find a way to shoehorn it into my fics. 
> 
> Check out transphantomweek on tumblr for more trans Phantom fic and art by me and others. You can find my personal tumblr at jeremystollemyheart!

Raoul finds her in a quiet room away from all the other mourners, drinking over-sweet coffee from a styrofoam cup. He can tell from the way her hands shake that she’s already had too much. 

The room is furnished with a retired wooden church pew and a formica counter with a coffee pot and a basket of complimentary snacks laid out for the bereaved. Instead of seating herself on the pew, Christine has pulled herself up onto the counter. She kicks her heels against the wooden cabinets underneath. 

“Hey,” he says, ducking his head in shame at having disturbed her, “You okay?” 

And it’s a bad question, and he knows it’s a bad question, but it’s the only one he can think to ask. 

“Is Mama Valerius looking for me?” She asks, avoiding an answer. 

“She’s managing the receiving line on her own. She just wants to make sure you’re okay. Relatively speaking.”

Christine laughs, as breakable and half-wild as the laughter of fairies that her father used to insist he could hear on summer evenings. Raoul can’t remember when they stopped sounding like fairies to him, when he started explaining the noises away as crickets chirping and tree leaves rustling. 

“Sit with me?” She begs, and of course he does. He pulls himself up onto the counter beside her, nudging the basket of snacks to the side. 

“I don’t like looking at the body,” she admits after a long moment of silence, “And I can’t stand people I’ve never met telling me how ‘natural’ he looks. It’s not like they say, it’s not like he’s asleep. He sleeps on his side. And his hair is all wrong.” 

Christine inherited her father’s unruly curls, but hers are lighter. As she shakes her head in disgust the shine of them crowns her like a halo. Rooms away, in his coffin, her father’s curls have been meticulously tamed in a way that is all wrong. 

“Everyone in there is an adult,” she spits out the word like she hadn’t turned nineteen a few weeks before, like he wasn’t Twenty next month, “And you’re the only one here who remembers him like I do.” 

And although it’s probably wrong to cry in front of the daughter of the deceased, although he feels like his grief fills the room in all of the wrong ways, this is all the permission Raoul needs to quietly shatter into the pieces he’s been holding together for hours, ever since he and Philippe entered the funeral parlor. 

He coughs to cover the sob that sits heavy in his throat, and wipes furiously at his eyes, murmuring something about allergy season as he tries to knit himself back together enough to be comforting. 

Christine notices. She reaches for the cuff of his jacket sleeve rather than his hand as she says, “It’s okay.”

And then he sobs enough for both of them. He sobs because Christine can’t, because she always sits in silence with her grief until she feels it has expired, then boxes it up and puts it away. He sobs until the coughs turn real, until he’s adjusting his binder under his starched dress shirt. 

“He was the first person I ever told,” he says, as he expertly tugs at the fabric until it’s sitting correctly again and he is breathing more comfortably, “Before Philippe. Before you, even.” 

“I remember,” Christine agrees, “And he was always proud of that. He asked me to practice pronouns with him before every single one of your violin lessons from that point on. I don’t know if I ever told you.” 

This confession leaves Raoul breathless and watery-eyed all over again, but this time he smiles as he swipes away the tears, “I didn’t know that.” 

“He was really honored, and he didn’t take that lightly. It wasn’t something he ever would have told you himself, but I think you should know about it now. He was so proud of you. And you were always better at violin than I was.” 

She’s right, but Raoul feels a little bad laughing. Christine sings like a bird, but she always positions violin bows too close to the bridge and she has never quite mastered the vibrato. 

His laughter fades, and for a moment there’s a horrible, empty feeling, like becoming an orphan all over again. That’s something he and Christine share now, and that knowledge hangs heavy between them. 

She leans her head back and finishes off the dregs of her coffee, making a face when she hits the sugar that has accumulated at the bottom of the cup.

“How much have you had?” He questions. Her hands are still shaking.

“Three, I think.”

“Right,” he wriggles the cup out her hands and punctures a hole into it with one blunt fingernail, “I think that’s probably enough.”

She doesn’t disagree, just leans her head on his shoulder and says, “I don’t want to go back in there yet. Can you stay here with me?” 

“Sure. I’m not going anywhere.” 

They kick their heels against the cabinets in time with each other. 

And that’s where both Philippe and Mama Valerius find them an hour later, when almost all of the mourners have headed home. They leave the funeral parlor together, the brothers escorting the two women through the now-dark parking lot. 

“The fairies are laughing tonight,” Christine whispers in his ear, a private secret between the two of them, “Do you hear them?”

And for the first time in years, Raoul does.


End file.
